I’m weary, but I’m a fighter. Outlook’s dreary, wishes brighter. My story wasn’t so bad, but my demeanor’s telling, it isn’t glad. I was only seven, just a boy in church prayers heaven. My parents’ bodies kept me alive, everyone suffered, everyone else died. Stained glass windows yellowed with noxious fumes, the altar like a hearthstone of fiery plumes. Gasoline, dynamite, explosions, and chaos. Loss upon loss upon loss upon loss. They stifled the encroaching fire, suffocated and shielded with parental ire. Jenny’s eyes blocked out when dad huddled over my chest, grandpa’s oxygen mask cradled by mom’s breast. Chaotic disorder, destruction, unrest. Desperation, crumbling walls, barred doors, screaming, melting, scathing, wailing. Silence. Cold.
I’m scarred, burnt, and walk with a limp. An orphan with emphysema heckled as “wimp”. That demon’s out there, I know who he is. I neither desire revenge, nor hope for justice, prevention is all I hope to accomplish. There’s destruction in his wake, murder paves his path. I’m going to execute him, much is at stake if he unleashes his wrath.